When my eldest daughter was studying social work in college, she met a 94-year-old man at a senior’s residence who told her that when he was 92, he died for three minutes.
“When I died, it was like every dream I ever dreamed came back to me, all at once…” he told her.
“THREE MINUTES”
By
Lisa Forget
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Beeeeeeeeeeeee…
“Doctor, we’re
losing her!”
…eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…
“Nurse, hurry, get me the-”…eeeeeep.
Ping.
The clouds are so white. The air is so clean. I’m soaring.
Up, up and away in my beautiful balloon.
I’m singing. My voice is
flawless, pure and true. The wind gusts
past me, blowing through my long, silky hair.
It tangles in the wind and I laugh.
I love to fly.
I’m landing in green fields. I’m in Ireland. I don’t know how I know but I remember this
moment. I imagined it once when I was
eight. I look down at my hands, ivory
skin glistens a youthful glow in the sunshine.
I realize I am eight and I am immersed in something wonderful, a new
reality.
I jump from the wicker basket onto the ground.
Long, lime-coloured grass tickles my legs as I run through the velvet fields.
I’m anxious to reach the path leading to the castle sitting atop the hill in
the distance. People are waiting for me.
I hear them calling. I run faster.
I’m falling. I land on a rock jutting out from
a cliff. I look down. Water crashes against craggy rocks. I push myself away
from the rock’s edge and lean against wet, pungent, black earth. I feel roots and
vines and both my hands grip on tight. I
call out and hear nothing but the water below. I look up and know if I could
just climb the damp wall behind me, I’d find my family sitting fifty yards away
enjoying a picnic lunch on a blanket laid out on luscious green grass. I turn
quickly, praying I won’t slip and fall. I’m crying and calling for Daddy as I
reach for gnarly bits of root sticking out of the dirt. I try repeatedly but my
fingers slip and my feet never find purchase on anything solid enough to give
me leverage. I pant and begin to feel dizzy. The view pans out and I see
myself, alone on a jagged rock, one step away from death. I have lived this
moment countless times.
I’m running again in the field where I landed
the hot-air balloon. There’s a light in the window of the castle on the hill. I
hear music. I hear singing. I smell Irish soda bread baking in a clay oven. I
veer left.
I’m in a procession with a sea of beautifully
dressed children. My mother made the
dress I’m wearing. It’s my Communion. We’re all God’s little children and we’re
going to make our sacrament together. I arrive at the altar. I’m wearing my
wedding dress. My mother made this dress, too. The church is filled with pink
roses and white baby’s breath. My true
love stands beside me. His feelings for me make him tear up. I smile. He takes
my hand and squeezes it. I look around. My family is there, as well as all my
friends who walked with me in the communion procession. They’ve been with me
forever it seems. I’m blissfully happy.
I scream. I’m in unbearable pain. My insides
are on fire. It ends abruptly. I hold a wet, wiggly creature in my arms. It’s
warm and I want to hold it carefully so I don’t break it. I look down. My first-born is beautiful. Her
face changes and I see my second whose tiny perfect face morphs into my third
whose rosy cheeks look like strawberry ice cream. I feel warm and wet, just
like the angels in my arms. I’m bleeding and blood is dripping from the
hospital bed. There’s panic around me but I survive this ordeal as I’ve
survived many in my lifetime.
Drums are beating. The fields are drenched in
starlight. There are more candles in the windows. Someone is waiting; I think
it’s my prince. I have to go…soon.
A whistle blows and a teapot is filled. I hear a gurgle and smell fresh coffee. My
plate is full with date squares and shortbread cookies. My kitchen is abuzz
with laughter. I’m wending my way through the group of people standing around
my table and leaning against my counters. I don’t know any of them, yet I know
one day I will. I wander into the living room. There are musicians with guitars
and penny flutes and I hear a melody coming from the player piano. I didn’t even know it still worked. I make my
way toward the music and stop to sing a verse of the lively folk song they’re
playing and then I turn, making my way out the front door. The musicians follow
me and we form a parade, and then we march out into the street. I’m in the
midst of a photograph I’ve seen before, in a book about the past. I’m waving at
myself.
The parade marches on through the streets of
the bustling city. Everyone I’ve ever known, and thousands I don’t, have lined
the sidewalks. There are batons twirling in the air and trumpets blasting
familiar tunes. There’s cotton candy in a rainbow of colours and frothy drinks
being slurped up through foot-long straws. On my right, an elderly lady is
walking my dog, Sparky. I buried him in my back yard, under the maple tree,
when I was fifteen. He barks a happy hello to me. I say thank you to the lady
who’s walking him. I don’t know why I thank her, maybe it’s because the dog
saved my life once and I’m grateful someone is looking after him until I can do
so again.
I hear my name being called and I realize it
wasn’t my given name I’d heard but “Grandma”, one of the many names people call
me. I turn toward the voice. It’s my grandson and he’s smiling at me. Standing
behind him is my sister, and behind her is my cousin, and behind him is my
teacher from first grade who is walking arm-in-arm with my best friend Sally.
As the crowd parts, I see my parents. The parade stops. I know now I must be in
Heaven because it’s the only place my mother and father and all of these
wonderful people could be. I change course, making my way toward them. They
lift their arms ready to embrace me.
I hear the music again, the music coming from
the castle. It makes me pause. I have tried to not listen to it but it is
hauntingly persistent. I will have to go and tell the people making such lovely
music to stop, that I’m busy at the moment. I make a sign to my parents but
they are gone. So is the parade.
My feet are on soft soil. I am in front of the
castle. My prince is standing in the window; his face is that of my true love.
I’m wearing a fairy tale gown of lavender and iridescence that billows in the
heather-scented breeze. I am young. I am old. I am ageless. I make my way to
the entrance of the castle and as I reach for the door my chest bursts into
flames. My eyes widen and I am blinded.
“She’s coming to…” I hear.
I am struck dumb. I am lying on a cold surface
and my lips are sealed. I shake my head. I know my eyes are full, but of what,
I can’t say. I’m confused. Where am I?
“In the hospital,” the voice answers. I must
have voiced my question aloud.
“W..what happened?” My aged voice falters as
air passes, with much difficulty, through my dry throat.
“You died, Mrs. O’Brien,” the doctor says,
adjusting the tubes taped to my wrist.
“D..ied?” I ask.
“You were gone for three minutes,” the nurse
replies, taking my hand in hers.
It’s no wonder they’re touching me, to them I
must be immortal.
“Th…ree?” My lungs won’t cooperate, giving me
only enough air to manage a couple of words at a time.
“You rest now,” the nurse says. Your family is
here. They’ll be waiting for you when you wake up.”
“Yes,” I say, closing my eyes.
I know what she says is true. What I want to
tell her is, they’re waiting on the other side as well, but I’m too tired to
force another word from my lips. I feel myself succumb to sleep. I welcome it;
embrace the warmth of the little spot in my mind where I’ll dream more dreams I
know will welcome me when it’s truly time to go.
~ (c) 2011~
